


the train station

by scorpionGrass



Series: you can’t put a price on peace (of mind) [6]
Category: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Gen, Seventh Heaven (Compilation of FFVII)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpionGrass/pseuds/scorpionGrass
Summary: Rumours of a bloody, rain-soaked SOLDIER entering the slums don’t take long to reach Tifa’s ears.
Series: you can’t put a price on peace (of mind) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1363234
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	the train station

Tifa’s used to hearing the usual gossip at the bar. The owner of the weapon’s shop is cheating on his wife, the kids that play in the park a Sector over are actually being paid off by Shin-Ra for information, the broken down church has flowers growing in it… The list of tidbits goes on, whether they’re true or not.

But then she hears something that makes her ears perk up.

A bloody, rain-soaked SOLDIER First Class has been spotted entering the slums.

Tifa pastes on a smile and picks up a half-full pitcher of beer, heading over to the table she heard it from in hopes she might hear something more.

“Wonder what kinda trouble he got into, huh?”

“Yeah, so bloody you could barely tell his hair was blonde! Looked right like a Chocobo's ass.”

Tifa discreetly tops up their glasses. “What do you think a big ol’ SOLDIER could be doing down here?” she asks, candy-sweet and curious as a valley-girl.

“Hopefully gettin’ rid of them Ahriman infestations down in the warehouses,” one says, taking a big gulp of beer.

“Nah, they’re too docile for the kinda blood I saw on ‘im!” the other says loudly. “Prob’ly summat like… I dunno, First Class ones always get those secret-y secret missions right? He was over by the trains last I heard though, maybe they’re finally giving us slummers some upgraded goddamn transit!”

He’s definitely drunk, but the rest seems too good to be true. Tifa quickly goes back behind the bar, setting the pitcher down and calling up the stairs, curiosity fuelled by a frenzied hope not giving her pause.

“Barret! Get down here!”

The patrons of Seventh Heaven were used to her swings from sweet bartender to fierce fighter, so nothing more than a flinch and a sigh of relief flew across the bar, everyone just happy they weren’t the ones being called out this time.

Barret rattles his way down the stairs. “What’s it now Tifa?”

“Take over the bar. Now. I need to go,” she demands, already untying her apron and digging her bracers out from one of the drawers. “Just a couple hours, I’ll be back by tonight at the latest.”

She’s already out the door before Barret can protest, heading straight for the train station at a sprint.

~

He isn’t comfortable, not on the dirt ground, not on the concrete steps, and definitely not on the tracks. But then again, when was the last time he was comfortable at all? He can’t remember, save for a constant stream of adrenaline coursing through him to get him through it all.

(And a few moments of pitch-black that he can’t remember at all.)

The train chugs by again, leaving the station to go wherever it goes. A little girl passes him, giving him a curious look before her mother pulls her away abruptly.

“Don’t go near him! He’s SOLDIER, they’re dangerous!” she scolds, and he hears it through layers of fog.

Time passes, but he can’t tell how much anymore. His progress isn’t marked by how much land he’s crossed anymore, just the ticking of the broken station clock, unmoving with its hands twitching at ten-twenty. He blinks and wonders if he napped. He blinks again, head against the concrete and figures he must have had a nap.

He can’t tell.

Everything’s so… blurry…

~

When Tifa calls with a simple request an hour after she left in such a hurry, Barret is more than happy to oblige.

“ _ Close the bar for the day, _ ” she says, before hanging up, and Barret gets to it.

He hates bartending. Mixing and pouring drinks for himself is one thing, but for everyone else? No way. When he was behind the bar, it was tap or bust, and not a single patron gave him tips like they did for Tifa. As he shouts the stragglers out, he’s almost relieved. The bar’s a mess without her, and the clientele have become used to the way she runs it so much that without her it’s barely profitable. He was probably losing what precious little gil they’d made that day.

“Get out my damn bar!” Barret yells, ushering the last of them quickly out onto the porch and shoving them down the steps. “We’ll be open when we’re open!”

Most are used to their weird hours since most businesses in the slums work on the same weird personal schedules of the owners. Being rushed out is a normal occurrence, but there’s always one or two that haven’t gotten enough drink in them.

“But I never got me refill--”

“Here you go!” Barret booms, dumping the rest of a half-empty, watered-down pitcher on his head. “Have a nice day!”

He turns back and stomps in, slamming the door behind him and meticulously locking the slew of locks on it. Then he stares at the bar, glasses and plates everywhere, and figures he should probably let Tifa off the hook this time. It’s been a while since she’s needed a day. So he carefully piles up the dishes, scrubs down the tables, and makes the place as spick-and-span as he can get it before she gets back.

He’s in the middle of washing the dishes when the back door opens, locks turning in a series of snaps and clanks.

“Barret!” Tifa calls out. “We’ve got a guest.”

She comes into view, lugging a man with wet, blonde hair matted on his face. She hauls him over to one of the tables and sets him down as gently as one could with a heavy sack of potatoes. Which is to say, not very gently.

“And who’s that?” Barret asks, nodding at him and wiping his hands down. “Didn’t know you had SOLDIER friends in the city.”

Tifa frowns, leaning against the bar. “Just the one, though we haven’t been in touch for years. He’s… injured. And his head’s not right.”

“We takin’ ‘im in?”

“We have room.”

Barret snorts. “Your room.”

“I can take the couch.”

There’s determination there, and Barret knows she won’t let it go. She’s a stubborn one, and has been since the moment they met, something he’s always admired. He hopes Marlene will take that from her, if nothing else.

“Aight, couch it is. So, what ‘bout when he wakes up?”

Tifa sighs. “I don’t know.”

He sets his good hand on her shoulder. “We got too much going on to let a random SOLDIER stay with us for long.”

“He’s…” she trails off, deep in thought. “He’s not random. And we can trust him, I know we can. Just give me some time, I’ll figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> taking a scene from a wip that i never finished and calling it a fic #parkour


End file.
